I don’t even know what I’m going to say at this point, so I just have to nut up, make the call, and get this terrible part of my life over with.
Two more fingers of whiskey, and I take the plunge. I open up the cutlery drawer so I can have a fork ready—for when I’ll have to stab myself in the thigh with it. For soul-crushing Catholic guilt reasons.
She answers before I even hear it ring. “Declan Sullivan Cannavale. You don’t join us for Thanksgiving, and now you’re avoiding us at Christmas too?”
“I’m not avoiding you, Ma. I’m busy. Hi.”
“You’re prioritizing work over family. Again. Hi. You sound hungry—did you eat dinner?”
“Yes. I had a steak.”
“Oh Mr. Fancypants Magee over there with his steaks and his penthouse and his gallivantin’ around town and his big important meetings that are more important to him than his own mother.” I can hear her grinning. Mary Margaret O’Sullivan Cannavale is a first-generation Irish-American from Boston with a first class Irish Mammy personality. Sometimes she wields it like an adorable five-year-old with a toy lightsaber. Sometimes she uses it like a shiv in an impromptu street fight. She’s going easy on me up front, but that just means she’ll escalate if I don’t head her off at the pass.
I scoff quietly. “I’m definitely not gallivanting around town.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that? Sleeping at the office again?”
“Nope. I didn’t want to say anything yet…but I’ve been seeing someone.”
What the fuck, mouth?!
She’s silent for a beat before saying, “Say that again so I know I didn’t dream it.”
“I’ve been seeing someone. I didn’t want to say anything because of what’s going on, but—”
“‘What’s going on?’ What’s going on is you’ve been breaking my heart letting me think you’re all alone over there working all the time in that soulless crap hole. Now you’re telling me you’ve got a girlfriend and you’re keeping it a secret? From me?”
“It’s not a secret. I just wasn’t telling anyone yet. You know. Until I knew if it was serious or not.”
Fuck you, mouth.
“So, what you’re telling me is it’s serious?”
Fuck me.
“It’s still new” is what I’m saying at the same time that she says, “Bring her! Bring her to Christmas Eve dinner. I’ll tell you if it’s serious or not. It’s settled.”
“I don’t know if—”
“Oh…” She lowers her voice. “Does she not celebrate Christmas?” Because this would be terrible, and she doesn’t want my dad or the Virgin Mary to hear my answer.
“She celebrates Christmas.” I pause for her audible sigh of relief. “I just have to see about her schedule. She works as much as I do. Almost exactly as much, actually…”
“Is she there with you now?”
“No. No, she’s at her place. She took her niece shopping today.”
Fuck you, brain.
I toss the fork back into the drawer because this conversation is all the torture and punishment I need.
“Ohhhh... She’s good with kids! I like the sound of that.”
“Ma.”
“You know I always said you’d make a good father.”
“It is definitely too soon to be thinking about that.”
“I’ve been thinking about it ever since Eddie was born. The way you looked after him. Six years old and always looking out for the new baby. How much longer are you going to make me wait to become a grandmother? I’m not exactly getting any younger over here.”
“You already have grandkids.”
“I won’t be happy until all of my babies are blessed with babies of their own—you know that.”
“How is Eddie doing, anyway? I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
Thank God for Eddie. I can always bring him up when I need to shift the topic of conversation from what’s missing in my life to the dumpster fire that is his love life. Take that, youngest son.
“Eddie’s doing great, it sounds like.”
“He is?”
Fuck you, Eddie.
“Sounds like he’s finally met a nice girl, but he won’t give me any details either.”
“Ahh. Sounds about right.”
“Don’t try to change the subject, Mr. Esquire. You bring this girlfriend of yours—what did you say her name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Maddie.” Fuck you, Christmas.
“Maddie! Now that’s a charming name. She sounds Irish—love her already.”
“Oh, she’s a charmer, all right. But I’m not sure if she’s got any Irish in her.” I’d like to put some Irish-Italian in her though.
“Not sure? How could you not know something like that?” She sounds genuinely hurt that I’m not actively seeking out Irish-American women who are exactly like her.
“We’ve just had a lot of other things to talk about.” Like work. And how much she hates working for me. And how much she despises me as a person.
“Well, I can’t wait to meet her. Hang on.” I can hear my dad’s deep, muffled voice in the background. “It’s Declan!” she yells out. “He’s got a new girlfriend named Maddie! He’s bringing her to the dinner. What? Turn down the TV I can’t hear you! Stop yelling at me! Ugh—that man. Driving me nuts.”
“I’ll let you go if you need to—”
“Don’t you hang up on me, Mister Bigshot. You’ll bring Maddie on Christmas Eve. And you’ll take her to Boston for the O’Sullivan gathering on the 22nd. You got the invitation.”
I deleted the invitation.
“I don’t think they invited me...”
“I saw they cc’d you, so don’t try to get out of it. You’re going. Granny and Grandad can’t come for Christmas because of his foot. He has to keep it elevated as much as possible, so they can’t travel now. Hopefully, by the wedding.”
“Uh-huh.”
“God knows I’d fly to Boston in a heartbeat, but I gotta stick around here every damn day to make sure your father doesn’t accidentally burn the house down. Someone from my family’s gotta be there, and you’re the closest. They’ll be so happy to see you with someone new.”
“It only takes ten minutes longer to fly there from Cleveland. Why can’t Aiden go?”
“Aiden’s got kids.”
“Right. And he can’t afford to get alcohol poisoning from hanging out with the Irish side for a few hours.”
“It’s the truth.”
“I can’t just fly to Boston for a cocktail party.”
“Oh yes, you can. You went for that meeting once—you think I don’t remember?”
“That was for work.”
“Uh-huh. I see how it is. Enh. It’s fine. They’ll both be dead soon anyway, so what’s the point of spending time with them? They’re just your mother’s parents. My entire side of the family will be dead soon, probably from their livers giving out, so who gives a flyin’ whatever, right?”
“Ma. I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t go to that. But I will bring her to Christmas Eve, all right? I promise.”
She sighs. “Okay.” She never really expected me to go to Boston. I know that tactic. She knows I know that tactic. “That’s my good boy. And you’ll bring her to…”
“Yeah, I’ll bring her.”
“I’ll tell them. You don’t have to—I’ll tell everyone for you.”
“Thanks, Ma. I appreciate it.”
“Anything for my sweet boy…Hang on—what?!” My mother never pulls the phone away from her mouth when she yells at my dad. Ever. “It’s in the cupboard! Not that one—the other one! Yeah it is—behind the thing! Don’t you move my things around! Tony! Tony?! That man, I swear. I just want you to marry a nice woman who’s as tolerant as I am, Dec. Christ on a cracker. I’ll call you back.”
“I actually have to call Maddie now, so…”
“Awww, you do that. I’m so excited to see you—I love you, my sweet, sweet boy.”
“Love
you.”
Conversation over.
Now what?
Ma always said I’d catch my death from the cold if I went outside barefoot… I could try that. I could ask one of the women I was “gallivantin’ around town” with earlier this year if they want to pretend to be named Maddie for a few nights, but I haven’t seen any of them for a couple of months, and who needs that conversation?
Or I could just wait until I tell Cooper what I need her to assist me with over the holidays and wait for her to kill me slowly with eye rolls and sarcasm.
For the first time in two months, I don’t reach for my phone to text her when it seems like nothing else can save me.
But it seems that nothing—not even a phone call with my mother—can stop me from wondering if Maddie Cooper is naked right now.
Fuck my cold, dead heart.
Six
Maddie
HERE COMES THE SANTA CLAUSE
It turns out the only thing more aggravating than dealing with a gorgeous, moody, demanding boss is experiencing said gorgeous moody boss when he appears to be making an effort to be courteous, tolerable, and somewhat pleasant.
The last two days at work were weird. Creepy. Ominous.
Like the scenes toward the end of a scary movie, where you’re supposed to think that the axe murderer is dead and gone—so the heroine is walking around her kitchen barefoot, listening to a Van Morrison song, talking on the phone, and telling her friend not to worry about her anymore. Then pouring herself a glass of wine and getting into the shower. The camera slowly pans over to the basement door that she forgot to lock. The movie lulls you into a false sense of complacency right before shit gets real.
I never fall for it.
I never walk around my kitchen barefoot.
I always keep every door and window locked.
And I will not be lulled into a false sense of complacency with Declan Cannavale.
I’m suspicious. He’s probably going to ask me to work through the night on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day or something. I won’t do it. I don’t care how good he smells. He stinks as a boss.
He didn’t make me stay late last night. He hasn’t texted me yet today, so I actually got to have a Saturday morning all to myself for the first time since I’d started working for him. And it’s been great. I slept in. I drank hot cocoa in front of my Christmas tree while listening to “Ave Maria.” Okay, I drank hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps at ten-thirty in the morning while listening to Mariah Carey. I bought groceries. I’m able to walk down the sidewalk without bumping into people because I’m not busy responding to his texts.
And I don’t miss him one little bit.
I’m just enjoying freezing my tits off on this beautiful arctic day in the East Village. My landlady, Mrs. Pavlovsky, is out sweeping the stoop of our building, as she does every day of the year. The trees are bare, and there’s no snow or wind or even a speck of dust on the steps, but she likes to keep busy. And I love talking to her. This part of town is called Ukrainian Village, so it’s not uncommon to hear her accent in this neighborhood. But I’ve missed chatting with her on weekends, because she’s comforting to me in the way that her borscht is. She’s weird and colorful and nourishing.
“Mrs. Pavlovsky, you aren’t dressed warm enough,” I tease. She’s always telling me to put more clothes on, and now she’s wearing an old, worn-out wool coat, even though she owns a freaking building in Manhattan.
“Pah!” She waves her hand dismissively. “Zis is nothing. Here—no wind. In Ukraine—cold to my bones. Here—cold only skin deep. Meh.”
I wonder if my boss is only cold skin-deep. Maybe it just took him two months to warm up to me. Is that what’s happening?
“Oooohhh. Vat’s zis smile for, Magdalena? A man?” She calls me Magdalena, and she is about as good at pronouncing “w” and “th” sounds as I am at choosing boyfriends.
I wipe the smile from my face, walk up the steps, and open the front door to our building. “No smile. No man.”
She follows me inside. “Vy you don’t have man, Magdalena? Huh? Vy? You get man to go out on street vis, and I am not having to vorry no more. But now my heart is ache for you, alvays! Nyet. No good.”
She has asked me to “help learn better to speak ze English,” so I correct her. “You mean why don’t I have a man to go out with?”
“Yes.” She makes a great effort and manages to say, “Whyyyyy you don’t have man? Not all man is like one vis…with…long hair, alvays crying.”
The needy musician.
“Or man vis bags of avocado, alvays yelling about plastic.”
The angry vegan environmentalist.
“Some man is vonderful. Like my Vladimir.”
Her husband really was wonderful.
I pause by her front door and wait for her to unlock it. “You really don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got my hands full with work right now.”
“Pah! You know what your hands should be full of on weekend. Come. I have borscht and sausage for you. Come.”
“I’m really fine,” I protest. “I just bought groceries—but thank you.”
“You let me put more fat on bones, and good man vill come for you. You vill see I’m right.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m in my kitchen, biting into Mrs. Pavlovsky’s reheated sausage and definitely not thinking about anyone else’s sausage when my phone vibrates, and my heart starts racing. Because I’m hoping it’s not Declan. And it’s definitely not a sigh of disappointment when I see that it’s my sister calling me. It’s a sigh of relief. Because my sister Bex is my best friend and exactly the kind of person I should be talking to on a Saturday. Not my boss.
“I was totally just going to call you,” I say as soon as I answer.
“What are you eating?”
“A delicious sausage.”
“Interesting,” she says in a singsong voice. “That’s exactly why I’m calling you.” I can hear her collapsing onto a bed. “So, I’m tidying up Piper’s room because she’s out. And one of her notebooks just happened to fall on the floor.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you know how I discovered a few months ago that she writes fanfiction?”
“You mean how you discovered it by making her notebooks accidentally fall open on the floor?”
“I’m very clumsy. It can’t be helped. Anyway. Last time she was writing a very PG-13 Stranger Things fanfic story. Now she’s working on something about Maddie and Declan.”
Whaaaaat?
“Who is Declan, and why does your niece think you should be kissing him?”
“I have no idea, because I know for a fact that I should not be kissing him.” I scoff, very convincingly. “She met Declan the other day. He’s my asshole boss.”
“Really? Because he doesn’t sound like an asshole to me.”
“Let me guess—does he sound like a man with a perfect butt?”
“Yes, but he also gazes at you longingly with his beautiful amber eyes.”
“That is definitely fictional. You know for a fact that Piper has a hyperactive imagination.”
“There has to be something there, or she wouldn’t be shopping you.”
“Shopping us?”
“Rooting for the two of you to succeed in a romantic relationship. Maclan.”
I have to laugh at that. “You mean shipping. She’s shipping us. You know I love that girl, but she is absolutely flooded with hormones right now. She would root for two pigeons to succeed in a romantic relationship if she saw them sitting together.”
“She’s actually very perceptive.”
“Yeah. She’s extremely perceptive about boys’ butts. You do realize we’re talking about the man who’s making me work on Christmas Day?”
“Oh yeah. That’s still happening, huh?”
“Yeah. Still happening.”
“But you’ll be at Aunt Mel’s for dinner?”
“Please—I tell youse,” I say, imitating our Aunt Mel from State
n Island. “I am there, come hell or high watta, arright?”
“Youse betta be, I’m tellin’ youse… Shit. Piper’s home. We never had this conversation—but we aren’t done talking about Boss Butt!”
She ends the call.
That kid. I have no idea what Piper is thinking. Maclan.
I open up my messages app and scroll through the many, many text conversations with Declan. He definitely does not look at me longingly with his beautiful amber eyes. But he is kind of fun to text with. And look at. But terrible to work for. I can’t even imagine how awful he’d be to date.
Suddenly, a new text notification pops up. From Boss Butt.
DECLAN: Happy Saturday, Cooper. You at home?
“Shit!”
DECLAN: I’m just asking if you’re at home.
“Shit shit shit.”
ME: Why do you ask?
DECLAN: Because I’m in the neighborhood.
I burst out laughing. Is he kidding me? What is this—a booty call? Am I supposed to get all excited? I tell him I’m at home, and he’d say, Oh good, so you’re not busy—I need you to do something for me. “Not falling for it,” I mumble to myself.
ME: I’m out running errands all day. And night. Unfortunately.
DECLAN: Really? Because your landlady let me in and I’m standing outside the door to your apartment right now. Pretty sure I heard a woman swearing and laughing in there. Should I call the cops? Maybe someone broke in.
“Shit.”
DECLAN: I think I just heard her again. Kind of a potty mouth. Sounds like trouble.
ME: Just tell me right now if you’re here to murder me.
A Very Bossy Christmas Page 3